Maid of Secrets (31 page)

And I was about to listen in on the most telling conversation of all.

Robert Dudley, Master of the Horse, was one of the easiest courtiers in the room to identify. Impeccably dressed in brilliant cloth of gold, his trunks slashed with velvet and satin, his hose of finest silk, and his short cape a rich crimson, he looked like a prince in the making, and several whispered words underscored that perception as I made my way across the hall. Robert Dudley had more idle enemies than
passionate ones, but he also had more enemies of any stripe than friends.

As I walked, conversation wormed through the crowd that the Queen had fallen in love with Dudley, with others arguing surely not. I grew weary of the chatter, and wondered how the Queen herself must feel. Always on the edge of conversations about her—and doubtless vaguely disappointed when she realized the most fervent gossip was not about her politics, but about her potential paramours. Unbidden, the beginning of a new couplet came to mind:
All of them hunting for aught that’s amiss.

My thoughts had taken me forward until I was now almost upon Lord Dudley. He was a well-turned man, his manner as brash and young as that of a sailing captain indulging in his first race. Nothing about Dudley was ever done by halves.
The Queen’s deepest secret, betrayed by a kiss.

Now he was talking with Nicolas Ortiz, whom I hadn’t seen in several days but who was well-matched to Dudley—two dandies out for attention, and gaining it at every turn.

Dudley laughed, and my attention was drawn back to the Queen’s favorite courtier. He appeared to already be in his cups, but it was a popular affectation for many noblemen to appear feebler than they were, so as to justify their impetuous actions. Dudley was rambling on about the value of love in a loveless court, and how the Queen was in need of fresh air and time away. He was the burst of that fresh air, he declared, and he planned to be the Queen’s right hand in any way she cared to define the term.

My eyes widened at his carelessness, and not just because he was speaking to a Spaniard. Robert Dudley was
still a married man, his wife closeted away in some town far away from the intrigues of court. That he should speak so freely and in such earshot of the gossipmongers betrayed a curious sense of security that would doubtless irritate the Queen, no matter how much she enjoyed his company.

No wonder Cecil and Walsingham eyed Dudley with such concern. They didn’t fear the Queen falling afoul of some random charmer. They feared Robert Dudley. Robert Dudley, the onetime London Tower–mate of the Queen’s when she was but a princess out of favor, and now her bosom friend.

A scandal with another monarch was one thing, and easily explained. The affairs of heads of state were not something a commoner could be expected to fully understand. But for the Queen to be caught out with a man having no prospects but his charming face and pleasant speech? That would be an embarrassment of epic proportions. It was simply not to be borne.

Yet I feared it would be Robert Dudley whom I would find in the Queen’s arms, if it were anyone. I prayed that Elizabeth would be smarter than that.

Mercifully, Dudley’s conversation turned quickly enough to the Queen’s horses, and the hunting to be had north of England. I began to search for my next targets, the Lord and Lady Bellencourt, late of Sussex. As I scanned the chamber, I felt a presence sidle up to me, and my heart quickened despite my determination to appear unfazed. How had he found me, in this terrible crush of people?

“The dress becomes you, sweet Meg,” Rafe whispered, the words so low that I thought I’d imagined them.

I turned to him, offering both my hands as if we were old friends, not fully registering his appearance at first. “And you, Count de Martine, are looking . . . ”

I blinked. “Well,” I finished lamely.

There could not be any other word to describe it, since anything else I came up with would not be safe for polite company. Rafe was dressed like a seafaring rogue, his chest bared in a white shirt with its sleeves rolled up and its collar low, his well-muscled arms bronzed against the bright cloth. His cloak was thrown back from his shoulders, revealing richly colored breeches and stockings, ending in serviceable shoes that looked like they’d actually trod the decks. He had a bright gold medallion at his neck, and his eyes were covered by a black sash with cleverly constructed eyeholes. “You look like a pirate, come to steal the Queen’s heart.”

“The Queen has pledged her heart to far more courtly men than I,” he said with a grin. “But is yours the heart of a gypsy, Meg? Or the heart of a noblewoman? That question holds far more interest to me.”

I turned away from him, once more scouting the crowd. “I should think you would save your flattery for Beatrice,” I said with a shrug. “She will be more receptive.”

“And yet Beatrice did not hold my heart for longer than a dance. You seem determined to steal it away at every turn.”

A warm rush of pleasure flashed through me at his weighted words. “You are very good at this,” I said. “You must have begun practicing in the cradle.”

“In my own mother’s arms, in fact,” Rafe teased. Then his eyes grew more somber as he gazed at me. “I cannot stay away from you, it seems,” he muttered. “But I have no
choice, this night. And you must promise me you will not follow.”

I raised my brows to him. “Why? Where are you going?”

He shook his head. “I do not joke. You must know I’m aware of your presence now, and your threat. You and Jane and Beatrice and Anna . . . and even grave Sophia. I told you I would be watching you.”

I stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He gave me a hard, cynical smile. “Worry not, sweet Meg. It is only in learning more of you that my thoughts turned to them. You all blend well enough. But now this game grows too dangerous, and you all should remain in the schoolroom, and not in harm’s way.”

Anger flared through me. “I have no need for the insults of a Spaniard.”

“Then take them from a friend,” he countered. “Do not try to follow me.”

The dancers, laughing and rushing, forced us back into the press of the crowd, and we were jostled amidst the crush of people. I started to feel claustrophobic, and if anything, Rafe contributed to my discomfort, stepping close to me, his expression darkening.

“Do not try my patience. Your trick will eventually be discerned, as well as your secrets, by those who are not as forgiving as I am.” Another burst of laughter from the crowd, and we were pressed closer together. I turned just as he did, and our bodies were flush—too close, too warm, our faces but an inch apart.

I pulled in an unsteady gasp of air, but the only thing I seemed to see was Rafe’s mouth, his lips parted slightly, his
breath honey sweet. My heart grew suddenly too full, and I jerked my gaze upward, only to find him staring at me. His gaze held mine fast, and his hand closed the space between us, his fingers grazing my stomach through its thick satin casing, then sliding around to my waist. His actions were protected from others’ view by the depth of the crowd, but it was as if there were nobody there but us. “Know that I wish no enmity between us, Meg,” he said, his words barely a whisper in the clamor around us.

He ducked down toward me, brushing his mouth against my hair, still shielded by the dancers. I froze as he touched his lips to my earlobe, worrying the heavy silver earring I had borrowed for the night. “I only wish to protect you.”

My stomach curled into a tight knot, and heat suffused my entire body. Rafe moved his hands down the tightly fitted bodice of my gown, grasping my waist as if he were hanging on to it for memory’s sake, breathing in the rose-petal fragrance that Beatrice had been kind enough to spare me. “I only wish to keep you safe,” he said again.

“That is not your concern,” I protested, but he lifted his head, his eyes suddenly determined, not a kernel of warmth in them.

“You’ll forgive me in time, but know that I do not do this lightly. I must away, and you must not follow me.”

The crowd suddenly broke, a fissure opening between us and the dance floor. The dancers were coming around again, arms and legs flying in circles wider and wider, not near enough to harm any onlookers, but enough to incite them into their own spontaneous jigs. Just as I began to question
the firm set to Rafe’s jaw, the calculation in his eyes, it was already over.

He pushed me, hard, into the roiling crowd.

I and my skirts went down like a woman drowning, and a great commotion arose around me, laughter and shouts of concern—even jeers about my gracelessness. Sound assaulted me from all sides, and as I struggled to rise, I had so many hands helping me that I was nearly torn asunder, a victim of the very Samaritans who’d rushed good-naturedly to my aid.

I finally regained my feet and whirled around to the great goodwill of those surrounding me, but Rafe was gone. I was alone in a sea of noise and color.

“God’s bones, what was that about?” Jane hissed at my side. She grabbed my elbow and forced me along, none too gently; but I was so grateful, I didn’t mind. “I would have been closer, but I expected you to be
embraced
by the Spaniard, not shoved to the ground.”

“You were watching me?” I asked, shocked enough to turn to her despite the fact that she was still propelling me through the crowd.

She scowled at me in her mannish costume. “I watch everything. One way or another, I expected trouble to befall you this night. I just didn’t expect it at the hands of your young count.”

“Did you see where he went?” I asked. “He knows I will follow him; he goes to a meeting of some import. I must find him, but—”

“But he’ll recognize you at a hundred paces in that gown.” Jane narrowed her eyes. “I’ve never seen its like.”

I gazed down at my gown, knowing her words to be correct. The gorgeous, distinctive pattern of the gown might as well have been a beacon in the night. Rafe would easily spot me if I approached him in this.

“Remind me never to trust a Spaniard, will you?”

She squeezed my arm. “You have my word. The moment I sense you going weak in the knees, I’ll break his.”

“You’re a good friend.”

“I try.”

At that moment Anna rushed up to us. I’d opened my mouth to tell her I wasn’t injured, when she cut me off. “The Queen! The Queen sent me to find you!” she gasped.

We halted, staring at her. “The Queen?” I asked. “Whyever for?”

“She’s—she’s just learned that Lady Amelia has left the masque—without an escort, at least not an English escort—and she, and she—”

“Anna, get a hold of yourself!” Jane snapped. “What is it you’re trying to say?”

Anna took in a deep breath, her cheeks red with effort above her daffodil-colored gown. “Lady Amelia left with a Spaniard. I don’t think she is fully in her right senses. Someone told the Queen and she told me to tell you, Meg. She fears another disruption, I think, and she can ill afford that.”

Jane groaned. “Lady Amelia would have to be daft to leave with a Spaniard this night, I can tell you that plainly.”

“What will we do?” Anna asked. “I can go, of course. Lady Amelia could be in danger!”

“You have to stay,” Jane and I said at the same time.

“In fact, go back now, to the Queen,” Jane said to Anna, and I nodded.

“Tell her that you’ve spoken to me,” I said, “and that all is well.”

“Are you sure? I can help, truly!”

“You can help more at the Queen’s side,” I assured her, not missing the disappointment in her face.

Anna stared at us another moment, then sighed and turned away, accepting our judgment. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was one thing to decipher a letter, but neither of us felt that Anna was ready for the challenge of following anyone. Beatrice was three men deep in a gaggle of Scottish courtiers, executing whatever fell plan Cecil and Walsingham had set for her, and Sophia was safely buried in the three rows of attendants that surrounded the Queen. Jane and I had not yet determined how to broach the subject of her father with her. How does one say, “We know your betrothed is actually your long-lost father in disguise, risking the wrath of the Queen to free you?” And what would be your follow-up line?

In any event, this night there was only the two of us.

“Go,” Jane said to me, nodding toward where Rafe had disappeared. “I’ll make sure Lady Amelia doesn’t come to harm—or make any mischief herself—and I’ll come back straightaway and report to Cecil after I find her. There will be no disturbances this night, I can assure you.”

I looked at her. “My orders from the Queen were to ferret out the forces behind all the court disturbances. Lady Amelia is about to become a disturbance, I wager. I can’t fob that off on you.”

“No one but you can follow Rafe and report back what they say with accuracy. I can make sure a hapless maid doesn’t get harmed. Now go, or you will lose him.”

“But we’ve already discovered that I stand out to Rafe at a hundred paces. However can I find him without being caught out?”

The answer came to us of a moment, and Jane grinned at me. “Through here,” she announced, and in another moment we were in a short outside of the Presence Chamber, and she was shucking her outfit. She was dressed as a sailor boy for the ball, with long, loose breeches gathered below the knee and thick woolen hose. Her cloak was black and her shirt a white tunic, blousy enough to hide any hint of the figure beneath. She bound my head in her wrap, and the mask fit neatly over my eyes.

“You’d never pass as a man up close, but in casual view, absolutely,” she said with satisfaction. “All right, go. Rafe was heading for the North Terrace.”

“He could have doubled back several times over,” I said, dismayed. “The North Terrace extends the entire length of the building, and there will be others out taking their air.”

“True enough,” Jane said, fitting herself into my gown. I was slightly smaller than her, but the effect was breathtaking.

I stared at her. “Jane, you should keep that gown, if ever you want to catch the eye of a courtier.”

She surveyed herself critically, then grinned at me. “Like you, I value my freedom from the marriage yoke too much,” she said. “Now off with you.”